Watching You
by TASHAx
Summary: I am Draco Malfoy. I am a Death Eater. I am in love with Harry Potter Saviour of the Wizarding World, Star of the Golden Trio and My Enemy. Here is safe, here is sound,As long as you’re around, Keep you mine, if I keep my distance. . .


_I'm watching you, from where I stand...  
The ground is shaky...  
When you pass close by,  
My head is spinning,_

Here is safe, here is sound,  
As long as you're around,  
Keep you mine, if I keep my distance,  
As long as I just hesitate and hold my ground,

I'm watching you - it's what I do...

I am Draco Malfoy. I am a Death Eater. I am in love with Harry Potter; Saviour of the Wizarding World, Star of the Golden Trio and My Enemy. The War, for the most part, is over. In other words, the Dark Lord is dead - murdered - by the hands of Harry Potter, however some of us escaped Azkaban and the massacre and we are tailing key members of _the Order _in hope to destroy them and avenge our fallen leader. As I was to take over, should the Dark Lord die or retire it was up to me to stalk The Boy Who Lived. He was beautiful in a tragic sort of way; his black hair stark against the pale of his war torn skin, strawberry scratches litter his visage and his eyes, once so emerald, now resemble bruised clover and oily pools that lack an end. He killed my master, my Father, my friends; took my freedom, my home, my chance at a life I want. And still I love him. But no one can know. No one can know how my heart races when he passes me by, how my breath hitches in my throat when he brushes past me as I stand there invisible to the naked eye beneath a coat that I - like he - inherited from my Father.

So often I want to call out. Want to reach out. Break out. He makes me want to be better, makes me wish that I'd never engraved the Dark Lord's symbol upon my left forearm. . .he is the only one in this world that sometimes makes me wish I hadn't been born a Malfoy. If I hadn't maybe he would have shook my hand when we were eleven and maybe now, at twenty-three, we'd share a bed, a home, a life; the victory. But what has passed has passed, I made my lonely bed and here I must lie, contented with what I have not got. . .but, in my own way, I do have him; he is mine. I see him cry in the night, see him let his smile slip. . .It is only me and Harry then, in the dark of the twilight. . .him not knowing, never being able to know, that I am there. I could kiss away every tear then let him dissolve in my arms, he could take his anger, frustration and grief out on my body as we made love, I wouldn't mind bearing his bruises; physical wounds for his emotional gashes - a fair lover's exchange. But I don't approach, I never approach. . .I am not foolish; I am afraid. Not afraid of Azkaban or execution, nor of torture or death or failure. . .but if I break the silence, if I take revenge, if I end this game of voyeurism; I lose him. So I hesitate, I raise my wand then put it away in the same instance. I reach out to stroke his porcelain cheekbone and withdraw, my breath snagged.

As long as I stay out of sight, out of mind, I am safe. He does not know it is I that disturbs his curtains in the midnight hours, that it is I who wipes the sweat from his brow as he sleeps unsettled, that it is I who whispers in his ears words of comfort when the pressure and guilt becomes too heavy for his young shoulders to carry. It is me who is granted the pleasure of seeing his form peaceful once I have soothed him into a serene sleep, far away from night terrors, and this, my friends - my listeners - is a bittersweet reward for I know he will never know that he is looking directly into my silvery eyes, furthermore I know if he did know it was me - _Draco Malfoy _- I'd be dead before he had time to realise my orbs are filled with nothing but love for him. . .never will I have the satisfaction of him awaking to my face and smiling simply because he is within the knowledge that it was I - his lover - who protected him as he slept. . .so, for now, I'll just watch. . .it's my _job_ after all. . .it's what I do.

_My hesitating mood, I stare then I brood  
I like my solitude, I'm frozen to it  
Here where I stand, you're coming my direction  
I have to look away, so you won't see me..._

_  
I'm watching you,  
I'm watching you,  
It's what I do...  
It's what I do..._

It's November and it's cold. I've wrapped up warm; thick black woollen cloak, black scarf pulled up to my nose and a black hate that covers all but my eyes. . .I'm serving duel purposes - keep warm, don't die from the cold and keep myself hidden, covered up so I can come out into the open a little more. He's in a little bistro café, down one of the quainter, quieter streets of Diagon Alley, although as soon as Potter leaves the owners will call the _Prophet _and reporters will swarm here and they'll tell of how Harry Potter sat drinking tea with Ginevra Weasley, his ex-girlfriend and suddenly the bistro will become a famous success, boosting the matradee's wages up tenfold. Harry Potter is a commodity, a franchise, these days . . .and it all weighs so heavy upon him. They chat and laugh. . .and touch accidentally, brush each others fingertips, or bumping knees beneath the cramped table and Harry blushes, his cheeks erupting into blooms of dark crimson. The Weasley girl simply smiles. She knows her effect on men. Merlin, physically that girl attracts me. What? I'm not _gay_, you know. I've never lusted after a Wizard before, always been a ladies man, all Malfoy's have. But Harry, he's, well. . .he's Harry. They stand to leave, she stretches up on her tiptoes and just reaches his cheek; she kissed him. He blushed. She laughed. She left.

It's not fair. Jealousy burns; I can feel it raise it's ugly head. The trait the Malfoy's are renown for has a tight grasp on my throat and I can sense it squeezing the life out of my windpipe. He sits back down and orders another cup of tea - a dash of milk and one brown sugar. . .disgusting, utterly common way in which to take tea and yet dreadfully Potter. And so it is dreadfully adorable - to me, at least. Merlin, listen to me! I sound like some lovesick poet. . .it's one of those days, one of those days where I feel tender and self pitying. Making sure my face is well obscured I walk into the small bistro and take a seat at the table furthest from Potter's, I order my coffee black and strong then begin to gaze at Harry once more. . .why couldn't I have fallen for Pansy? Daphne? Fucking hell, I'd even take Crabbe right now. The one male who turns my head and holds my wanting gaze is the one that is so out of bounds I may as well Avada Kevada my heart right now and be done with the ongoing pain. . .why draw it out so long? If I killed Potter, it would be the venom out of the wound, and then there was only the wound to heal. . .if he were gone, I would still want him but soon that would stop because he would be dead and completely from my grasp. . .whereas now, I know, he is only a few metres from me at nearly all times but can do nothing about it. So, why don't I just turn my wand on him and be done with it? I love him. That's why. I'd never be able to do it. . .so many times I have come so close to cursing him and having done with it, but the words never come from my mouth. The incantations never slips from my lips. . .I attempt to force my tongue around the stuck utterances but it is no good, he will not die by wand, not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.

He turns and looks directly at me but my eyes fly to my half empty cup and he quickly glances away. He stands, leaving money on the table top before walking out. I cannot follow him yet. . .I'll find him again later this evening. .. He'll return home at some point. . .he always does and I'm always waiting. Alone, cold and desperate. It is he that makes my day. . .watching him; both my tragedy and my joy. Wanting him, not having him. . .though not seeing him would be worse, of that, I am certain. Never to see the curve of his smile, rare as it is now. . .the perfect structure of his slender fingers, his slight form. . .the brazen scar marring his forehead only slightly hidden beneath the black mop that he'd never learn to tame. That would be a true life of solitude. . .a true life of misery and pain. He is my beauty, my sun and my light. Like the flickering flame of a candle in the dark. . .I wouldn't dream of extinguishing the entity that makes me glow. . .so, I watch him. . .

_I wait for you, sometimes I do  
Think I'll talk to you  
But when I see you...  
I just come unwired  
My head is spinning_

Here is safe, here is sound  
As long as you're around  
Feels so nice, oh so easy  
As long as I just hesitate and hold my ground

I'm watching you, it's what I do...

December twenty-third. Two days 'til Christmas, Yule. . .whatever, makes no difference to me. . .no one is there to cook dinner with me, no one to kiss me beneath the mistletoe and no one to exchange gifts with. It's just another day. More snowy, more cold, but another day nonetheless. Sad, really. I watch, invisible in his garden, a warming spell hovering around me as he wraps presents in his living room. . .the spell I cast doesn't seem to be warming me properly, it's only penetrating the surface. . .I can't feel it in my bones, my insides feel as icy as the powdery snow beneath my dragon hide boots. I feel a tear slip down my cheek and I don't bother wiping it away. I like the smooth roll of it as it glides down my visage, I like the bitter taste on my lips. . .lets me know I'm still here, still alive. Potter sips his mulled wine and grins at his bushy haired Mudblood friend, Granger. Bitch.

The ring on my finger grows hot and I look down; the emerald has turned a lurid green, the colour of lime and I know a meeting has been called, someone of the remaining troop has killed their prey. Not wanting to leave my spot in the Boy Who Lived's garden seat I feel myself wrench myself up from the cosy place I was sitting and disparate away. They are all sitting there already, all looking cold and pink nosed. Thin and gaunt and pale, all of us. . .a sign of the times. We were once so lavish and sumptuous and now we meet in a basement filled with mix match furniture and seven beds - one for each of us. This is where we come back to when the chase has become too much, when we need to sleep and recuperate. A pot of broth is always bubbling of over the fire and we simply have to add bits of meat and vegetables to it when we come in. . .the Muggles above us don't care who is in here or when so long as we pay the rent. It's not ideal. I wouldn't chose to live beneath Muggles, none of us would, we'd sooner slaughter them in their sleep but we need to keep hidden, keep away from the Wizarding world.

"Draco. At last." Blaise. He was once the most handsome boy in Hogwarts, now he is a man of faded beauty; hollow cheeks and deadened eyes.

"Blaise." I respond, curtly. I stare at the other five slumped in chairs around the room. Pansy is dressed in old washed out clothes and completely devoid of make up. She looks worn out beyond all of us. It is she, I realise, that has killed her victim; Arthur Weasley is dead. You can always tell which of us has performed great feats of magic, we look dead. Not that we're the picture of health normally; we don't eat enough or regularly. Often we are outside or in the dark. We cannot afford to bathe as frequent as we would have done. . .it's no life.

"Congratulations, Pansy." I say quietly.

"Five of us have managed it now, Draco." She shot back from beneath her hooded eyes. "It is only you and Blaise who have yet to kill the ones they follow. Blaise is to end the Mudblood's life Christmas eve; tomorrow. When will you kill Potter?"

The others who sit around us perk up and look at me accusingly. "Yes, Draco" grunt Nott, "Potter is not heavily guarded and you have no problem getting access to him. . .you follow him often, you could have done it long ago. . .are you sure you're up to it, Dra -"

"You question me?" I roar. "Do you question my faith when it was _I_ the Dark Lord trusted above all of you? _Ridiculous._"

"I'm sorry, Draco, I'm just sick of living in such squalor, I want us to _have our revenge and go._ I want to move away as we planned, over to Italy, over to your cousins. . ."

I snort. "You are weak, Nott. . .it is surprising you lasted a War." knowing all along it is I that is as weak as he. I don't want to go to Italy, I don't want refuge. I want to pay for my sins by living in discomfort. . .I want them to pay for their sins by restraining them and forcing them to reside here. . .it is wrong, callous and masochistic of me. . .but I do not care. I have Harry and he is entirely mine. "I am leaving now. Good luck, Blaise and well done, Pansy - stay here now, old girl, rest. . .get well." I lean down and kiss her forehead gently before returning to Potter's home.

He is asleep on the sofa. Softly, quietly, I enter the house undetected and cover him beneath a thick blanket. I watch as he snuggles in it. I take my place in the chair adjacent to his couch and invisible, I watch him sleep.

_I'm watching you  
I'm watching you_

Idiot. Idiot. _Idiot! _I'm fuming. Invisibly I pace the hallway in Potter's home having just returned from a meeting. My hands erratically run themselves through my blonde mop; Blaise Zabini has just murdered Ginevra Weasley. How can you get that Mudblood confused with the redhead? Yes, she's a Muggle _lover, _but she's also pure-blooded. Merlin, we're a dying breed and he's helping to oust them. Honestly, I don't understand how anyone could possibly confuse the two…Potter's going to be heartbroken. Not that he was in love with her anymore, no…but he certainly had a connection with her different than that of friendship. His hurt will be different of that compared to if he'd just lost Granger, as he was supposed to. I mean, good Circe, he popped Weasley's cherry and she his, if I'm correct…and they were once lovers and best of friends.

Failure. I told them I wouldn't accept it - they do say you always hate the part of you, you see in others - so, I killed Zabini, I know now…in fact I could feel it as I walked from the room, Nott and Parkinson will start a revolt against me. Bloody good job I poisoned that broth. They'll all have popped their proverbial clogs by now. And you know what, reader of mine, I have not one regret about it. Now, I'm free of them and they're finally paying for their sins, as I have been paying for mine all this time; they are in Hades, Hell…the Underworld and they are suffering for their wrongs perhaps to the point of remorse, as I have been. Childhood friends. Only a Slytherin could kill their childhood friends and be gleeful about it; that's another reason Harry will never be mine. Not truly.

The front door creaks open and in enters Harry. His hair and general appearance is dishevelled; he carries himself as a man defeated…broken. His eyes are red and puffy and his clothes are soaking…he has been walking in the wind and sleet, for a good couple of hours it would seem. Within his hand is a hairclip fashioned from mother of pearl. It's lovely, but…it's not Weasley's…it's Granger's. I've seen her wearing it often enough, seen Harry fiddling about with it in her hair. He's been with her. A searing pain slices through me…why am I not whom he turns to for comfort? Why can I never be…what he wants me to be?

He is slouching up the stairs and I follow, slowly, quietly…careful not to disrupt the silence he is leaving in his wake. He falls onto his bed and stares up at the ceiling, I take my usual position in the chair opposite him and I just watch.

"Oh, Hermione…they thought she was you…they -- they would have tried to have kill you. You were in the pattern, not Ginny. She -- she was not their target…"

His mumblings became slightly incoherent but at time I understood utterances such as _best friend_ or _can't believe she's gone_ and one, one that made my stomach turn and bile rise to my throat, _sweet Merlin, if they'd got Hermione…I, I love her…_

Bitch. I wanted to apparate out of the bedroom right there and then and find the bushy haired disgrace and wring the life out of her with my bare hands. In fact, I was on the verge of popping out of Harry's when I noticed the hysterically symphony of muttering and sobbing and sniffing had ceased and had, instead, been replaced with the soft breathing of a man who'd cried himself to sleep. And that was when I felt my heart melt…self loathing branched it's way through my veins like poison and infected my very being. Thoughts like that are precisely why Harry Potter never shook your hand on the eve of your sorting. He knew. He'd always known. And the irony of it was that it was for him I'd change…I'd do anything to put an end to this incessant game of voyeur and spectacle we played.

Standing I ripped off the invisibility cloak and stood for the first time in years fully evident in the presence of Harry Potter. Slowly I undressed myself until I was completely naked, my ice white flesh goose pimpling in the winter chill, the moon muted my frost and glass shining through the window and giving my body an luminescent glow. From within the pocket of my jeans I take a vial, the poison brewed by the Dark Lord himself with intent to kill Harry Potter, should he not have his wand within reach…I know what I must do.

I cross to the other side of the bed and lie in the vacant space that should have always been mine. In his sleep he turns so face me…so perfect. I trace the contours of his face…attempting to encase the memories of him so completely within my mind that I may never forget. Uncorking the small glass bottle I observe the dangerous scarlet colour of the liquid inside and swiftly down it in one gulp.

_Oh Merlin…it, it hurts._

I lie on my side, forcing my eyes open…he _will _be the last thing I see, this I am determined to be true. I will watch him until my last breath and when he awakens I shall be who, for one morning at least, he sees. Within my pockets lie coordinates to the lair…the bodies of my fallen kinsmen there, the plans we had concocted too will be discovered in the room where we have been hiding. Also within my pocket lies a letter telling of my love, my obsession, my yearning for the Boy Who Lived, for the Boy Who Will Always Live In My Heart. A confession to my crimes and a plea for forgiveness too…

I feel my throat closing and my eyes glazing, but they are still pried open and I can still see black hair and a thunderbolt shaped scar.

I used to watch him from a place so far and yet so near. Now I watch him through dying eyes and when I have passed I shall continue to watch him as he grows old and falls in love…

I'm watching you…

_  
It's what I do,  
It's what I do..._

**Author's Note: **For Sian, because I have been promising her slash for a long time.

I like this.

I think I kept Draco fairly in character…well, as in character as a "in love with Harry Potter and desperately obsessed with said boy while border lining unhinged" Draco can be.

Review please. It does wonders for the soul ;

x


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